


Unfinished

by witheredsong



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 10:33:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4784168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witheredsong/pseuds/witheredsong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Those we leave behind hold our hearts in their hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unfinished

It’s an unholy hour of the night, Marat is sure. The vodka in his bloodstream is making things seem mellow and soft at the edges, the joy of winning the Cup is slowly winding down and the pain in his muscles is just beginning to make itself felt. He’s so tired, so tired, and maybe that is why he cannot sleep. Instead, he sits beside the window of his bedroom in his shadowy apartment doomed to be never completed, and watches the night-traffic on the roads of Moscow.

 

Suddenly his mobile rings (You only live twice, Nancy Sinatra croons), and the sound pierces the strange peaceful haze that he has existed in for the past few hours. Must be Sasha, he thinks. Checking on him. Always the responsible one. He feels his lips twitch. Yes Alexandr, I am fine. His feet don’t seem to want to co-operate with him and the distance from the window seat to the bedside table looms enormous. He stumbles, curses a little and finally reaches his target.

 

“Hello?”

“Marat?”

 

The voice slams into his stomach like a physical blow and clears his head a little. The longing he has managed to suppress for months now (It’s not working. What? Why? No. I have to get this right Mario…my head, my life, my tennis, nothing makes sense anymore and it’s not fair, it’s not fair on you. Fuck you Safin…I am a grown man. You don’t make my decisions for me. Look me in the eyes and say you want to end this, because you don’t lo…want me, and I will walk out of this apartment and out of your life. Say that. But no excuses. I don’t love you.) suddenly surges and he feels bereft…desolate in the face of his hunger. Strange how he misses Mario so much when after months of silence, Mario is finally speaking to him. He feels absolved. He feels unfinished.

 

He hopes his voice is steady as he anwers, “Hey Mario. How are you?” Meaningless chit-chat with ex-lover at 3:30 A.M is safe. Mario breathes quietly down the phone and Marat can almost see his closed eyed, the unruly curls, the set chin. The picture is blurry, he can be a very stubborn man, and he has put as much effort into his tennis these past months as he has into forgetting Mario. He can still see him sometimes, if he concentrates enough, but the exercise is painful, just like the memories. (Sasha careful and gentle, Sasha picking up the pieces, putting him together, and that guilt lies silently in wait too, waiting to smash him. Again.)

 

Mario says, his voice quiet, “I watched you. You were good.” Marat knows exactly what Mario is talking about, but words spill, uncontrolled, teasing, nevertheless. “Against David?” He has missed Mario’s sudden laughter. “Not against David. That was…disgraceful.” Laughter threads itself in Mario’s voice, and Marat closes his eyes. “But against Acasuso, well, that’s the Marat Safin we know and love.” The stricken silence that follows the statement breaks Marat’s heart, or what is left of it, but he replies, “Thank you. It means a lot to me. You doing okay?” He can hear rapid sobbing breaths on the other side, knows Mario is having a brief struggle to compose himself and wonders what good came of this…thing that hurts them both so much. He also knows how brave Mario has been today, far braver than Marat, who sought the easy way out with a lie.

 

“I am sorry I called this late…what time is it there?” Marat smiles at that, Mario never wears a watch, not even the special one he got for being the most stylish player at St. Petersburg (and endured Marat’s ribbing for weeks afterwards), and says, voice soft with tenderness, “Four o’clock, morning. Your mobile not showing you the time? You were never good at the time-zone alteration maths anyway.” A small smile, jagged, appears and disappears instantly from his lips, and they tingle, ghost touches, unforgotten, lingering at the corners. He can taste Mario, the minty, orangey taste of a laughing teasing boy lazing on a boat back in Monte Carlo, and the ache spreads from his heart to every part of his battered bruised body. He knows he is just dragging the conversation on, but maybe this is the last he’ll have of Mario’s voice, Mario, all to himself. Maybe Mario is just striving for a closure, this phone-call, this conversation his way of saying good-bye. The thought is unbearable.

 

Mario speaks again, and he sounds hoarse, “Marat, you still there?” He replies, “Yes, yes. What is it?”

“I miss you,” and Marat won’t cry, he won’t spoil his day, no.

“I tried to move on, I tried to forget…but. I can’t do this. Fuck…Marat, I am still angry with you, you know, I haven’t forgiven you. But everywhere I go, all I see is your shadow.”

 

Marat takes a deep breath, and there’s no way out. “I lied.”

Mario laughs, but it sounds like a sob. “I know.”

“I’ll take the first flight to Monte Carlo tomorrow. You’re there, aren’t you? Or are you at Split?”

“I am at my apartment. Marat? Come home….”


End file.
